Invasion of Space
by RueCarter01
Summary: Robin as a kid spirals into depression. How and why it happened, and how and why it got better


OK, here we go. I'm Rachaiya, I'm (insert age here), and this is my first fanfic. I've been a member for quite some time now, but I'm only just now posting a story. Read and Review, or don't, mehhhh I suck at this…..

Richard P.O.V

It was….odd, to say the least. When I was a kid, growing up in the circus privacy and personal space didn't exist. Now, I'm thirteen and I can never run out of it.

Ironic, isn't it.

As a kid, I'd always needed space. So I could run, so I could jump, _so I could FLY._

But, now that I have it, infinite amounts of it, space is something I hate more than anything.

I used to be surrounded by people, performers, that didn't need space, didn't want it. Almost everything was for show, our bodies, our talents, our _beings_, were always out for display because that's what everybody was there for.

A show.

When my parents, _my family, _died, all I had was space. All I wanted was space. Everything I desired at the time involved my deceased family members, and –distraught as I was- I had come to terms with the fact that they weren't there. I didn't need anyone else, didn't _want_ anyone else.

So I shut myself out. I shut down. I didn't eat, didn't sleep. I figured that since no one -at the facility where I was placed- wanted me, I could waste away. I could die there, join my parents and rest in peace. They could give me everything I needed.

Including space, should the need arise.

But things never happen the way their supposed to.

I met Bruce Wayne for the second time.

Instead of smiling and looking the billionaire playboy he is, he looked solemn, angry, sad, and sympathetic. Like he knew, just _knew_ what I was doing and felt bad about it. He came to me immediately. He knelt down in front of me, put a _really_ big hand on my eight year old shoulder, and said "How would you like to come home with me?". I didn't know what to say at the time. I mean, it's not every day a billionaire comes to take you – an orphan- home with him. Yet there he was, and in my state, I couldn't say no.

So I let him take me to his home. I let him clean me up, I let him bathe me, feed me, and give me medicine for the cold I didn't know I'd developed. And the next thing I was aware of was him tucking me into a big bed, kissing my forehead, and him saying, "Good night, little bird".

And so it began, my spiral to depression.

It was dark in Gotham, in the Manor. Being a little kid, that scared me, I had never been a fan of the dark. Coming from the circus, I was always bathed in lights and colors, shining ornaments meant to attract attention.

Gotham was the exact opposite of that. It was dark and concealed in shadows, like the city as a whole was trying it's hardest not to be noticed. But how could it not, when the world's second richest man lived here. When the most successful family owned company on the planet was born and raised here. When Bruce Wayne adopted and stowed his charity case here.

The Manor in itself had that ominous look, that menacing stare that burned through you body and tore your soul to pieces if you didn't get in fast enough. Alfred was nice enough, but he had the aura of a ghost, the old, wise eyes of a man who'd seen everything. You could talk to Alfred for hours, days even, and never stop learning. He focused on his job a lot though, which was a good thing, but seriously, the Manor was already spotless, why clean what isn't dirty?

Bruce was never there, he was always working, or attending a meeting or party it was clear he didn't want to go to. But he did it anyway, because he had an image to protect.

I roamed the Manor, seeking solace in the nooks and crannies that I found. Hoping that if I explored it's depths, I wouldn't be so scared anymore.

But that didn't work.

As many weeks as I had been living in the Manor, I had gotten so used to the waves of depression it gave off, that I didn't notice it affecting me as well.

I noticed there was a problem when I woke up in the middle of the night to throw up. And I repeated the process every night for a long time.

Until it wasn't enough anymore.

I started to unconsciously started to scratch myself, my right wrist especially hard, whenever I was around other people. You wouldn't have noticed unless you paid attention, but the long, angry, red, scars slowly appeared on my forearm. I covered it up. Wrist bands, bracelets, tattoo sleeves, you name it, I used it. My wing of the Manor was generally cold. I liked it that way. It reminded me of Family, the way we roamed England as a whole around Christmas, looking for presents and snuggling with my Mami and Tati. Because of that fact, I had an excuse to wear long sleeved shirts. I could wear hoodies and sweaters, and nobody would blink twice.

And when I got worse, _he_ noticed.

Bruce – as he'd said to call him- started to come back to Wayne Manor more often. Every time he came home, he'd say "hello" to Alfred and come looking for me.

Once he came for me, I'd be forced to spend the rest of the day with him. He tried to get to know me, I appreciated the effort, but really, I was too far gone to be helped back then.

I was in the middle of offing myself when he caught me.

I had cried myself to sleep, had an awful nightmare, and woke up only to throw-up. I couldn't take it anymore, this had driven me insane. I went to my bathroom, I reached under the sink to where I'd kept the sharpened razor, I knew I would need it.

Not even wasting time to stand up I plunged it into my side and twisted, knowing that I'd bleed to death. Then Bruce came in.

Being barely conscious, I can't really tell you what happened after that. But I do know that being 9 (at the time) and ready to die meant that I had some serious issues.

That eventually got solved.

Bruce fixed me up. He'd told me everything, even about him being the Batman. He apologized for keeping secrets and not being there for me. He took me to counseling, and a bunch of therapists. He sought me out and I found that I enjoyed his company. He trained me and taught me how to fly again.

I took the suit that my Mami made and the name that she gave me, and became the Batman's partner.

Over time I got better. I got used to other people, I became more social and I didn't want space anymore.

As I got older I should've wanted my space, my alone time. But I didn't. As the 13 year old young man I am now. I need attention, I have to be touched or held. Just being noticed is good enough. If I don't I'll 'spiral down the dark hole of depression again', at least that's what my shrink says.

Now I have a new family. A huge family, that provides me with all the attention and affection I could ask for. Though the Justice League and all their partners can never replace my Famili, I do love them, an di can rest easy at night knowing they love me too.

It's ironic, to me, how just four years ago I'd have given up everything for some personal space, but now it's like a bad allergy to me.

But I like it.

A/N- In my mind, the way this was supposed to work was…. Since Dick grew up in a Circus, he was always looked at, and was showered with attention and affection, I figure he would want some space once in awhile. But when his family died no one wanted him so he was put in an asylum which would ultimately pop off his fragile mental state. Then Bruce comes, and you know how he is at first with his ' no love, only Justice' BS. So besides Alfred he'd be alone and eventually go into depression prematurely.

Any ways, 'hope this was alright R&R.

Start time: 10:12 7/28/12

Finish time: 1:14 7/29/12


End file.
